Duro
by trufflemores
Summary: 5.09/7.09 reaction fic. What if Barry and Oliver didn't phase out of the cell?


**Author's Notes:** Hello, everybody! I haven't updated my ffnet page in a while, so these fics are long overdue. I hope you enjoy them! (If you want to stay up to date with my stories, I always upload them to AO3 first.)

4:32 PM.

"What's your least favorite activity?"

"Really, Barry, that's your idea of small talk."

"I mean … we're kinda stuck here, I already know what you _like_ doing."

Oliver narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You do," he repeats flatly, sitting on the floor, back to the padded cell wall. "Okay. I'll humor you. What do I _like_ doing?"

Barry grins before schooling his expression into an impassive one, striking up an archer's stance, and lighting up an invisible arrow. "You like shooting arrows."

Oliver sighs. "Yes, Barry, I do."

"So." Slinking to the floor, Barry queries, "what don't you like doing?"

"My entire list of 'likes' is 'shooting arrows'?"

Barry nods. "Yes."

"I like _other things_."

Barry lifts his eyebrows. "Name _one_."

Growling, Oliver says, "I like _omelets._ "

Barry cocks his head. "I kind of pegged you as an easy-over guy."

"Over-easy, Barry. It's over-easy. And I'll eat them if they're in front of me, but I _like_ omelets."

Cheerfully, Barry says, "At least now I know what I'm gonna get you for Christmas."

A pregnant pause. "You were gonna get me something for Christmas?"

Barry shrugs. "Yeah? Do you … oh, wait, do you not celebrate Christmas? I know Felicity doesn't—"

"No, I celebrate Christmas," Oliver cuts in simply. "I'm just trying to process the idea of us … getting each other Christmas gifts."

Barry beams. "Aww, Ollie, you wanna give me a gift? That's so sweet. Hey, I can give you, like, a list, I don't want this to be—"

"Barry."

"Yes?"

"Can we … focus. On the situation at hand. For thirty seconds?"

"Uh. Sure." Shrugging, Barry pushes himself to his feet and stretches out his arms. "This cell is _just_ wide enough that we can both lie down, so that's a plus."

"I hope you're not planning on being in here long enough to sleep."

Barry yawns. "Honestly, your body's old and I'm tired."

"I'm not _old_ ," Oliver snarks indignantly, rising to his feet. "I am _extremely_ youthful, thank you very fucking much."

Barry giggles. He can't help it. "Oh, God, what if the air filtration unit breaks down?" he muses, looking at the ceiling. "We'll suffocate in here by the time they realize we're not getting enough air." When Oliver makes a face at him uncomprehendingly, Barry elaborates cheerfully, "Hysteria is a side effect of hypoxia. If our air supply runs low, at least we'll die laughing."

"Really."

"Uh-huh. You're the survivalist, you should know this."

"You know, Barry, strangely there weren't many times I was locked into a _metahuman-proof cell_ where air circulation was a legitimate concern. Most cells were standard issue. You know. Bars. Seams in the walls. Windows, even." Punching the padding hard, he adds, "Where are the seams, Barry?"

Barry holds up his hands defensively. "Listen, man, I was locked in one of these before—"

"How'd you escape?" Oliver asks.

A beat. "I didn't, actually, but—"

Oliver sighs and sits hard. "I changed my mind, let's sit in silence for thirty minutes."

Barry presses his palms flat against the glass wall, leaning his weight on it experimentally, before nodding in acquiescence. He slides down and says, "I wasn't kidding about that—"

"Barry just. Be. Silent."

Barry flashes him an A-OK sign before stretching out on the floor. Pillowing an arm behind his head awkwardly, he yawns, "I'll let you know when I've figured it out."

"Terrific."

* * *

5:51 PM.

Oliver is tapping on the walls. Barry hears the tip-tap noises long before he rouses himself from a light doze to full consciousness. "Do you ever … actually sleep?" he asks, fussing, mind foggy as he blinks blearily at Oliver. "My mind won't go anywhere. It's stuck on _almost_ asleep."

"Sleeping lightly is a survivalist's tactic," Oliver says without turning from the wall.

"I'm not gonna brain you in your sleep, Ollie. You gotta have someplace you can actually shut your eyes for ten minutes without feeling like someone's gonna be holding a knife to your throat when you open them."

"You've been out for over an hour."

Barry squints at him. "How d'you figure?"

"Because I asked nicely and Cisco said it was almost five thirty, and that was about twenty minutes ago."

"That was thoughtful of him." Making an inquisitive sound, Barry looks up at the deep blue ceiling and adds, "Kind of ocean-blue, don't you think?"

"Barry?"

"Hm."

Oliver turns to look at him. His expression is flat. "Is there _any way_ out of these cells?"

Shaking his head, Barry shifts positions, lying on his side. "Not unless you can turn invisible or summon cold powers while subjected to a power dampener."

"There _has_ to be a way out," Oliver snaps. "We can't just stay here until _your team_ —"

He spits the words with such venom that Barry finds himself saying, "C'mon, they're … they're not usually like this—"

"You either talk some sense into them or you find a way to break out, Barry, or—"

"Or _what_?" Barry challenges, exasperated. He pushes himself to his feet. In a drawl, he adds, "Ciscooo? Caitlin? Iriiiiis. Please let us out. We'll be good, I promise. See, I'm Oliver Queen." He waits, repeating, "Ciscooooo."

The act carries on for almost five minutes, Oliver looking ready to tear his own hair out in frustration, before Cisco finally responds.

" _We're going out for dinner, but feel free to keep making plans,_ " he says over the speaker.

Barry pauses, surprised at the actual response, before saying, "Hey, uh, quick question: could you bring back some Big Belly Burger? We're hungry."

" _Why?_ "

Barry pouts. He looks right at the hidden camera as he says, "Because you're decent people?"

" _No funny business, Queen?_ "

Barry holds up his hands. "We're just hungry."

" _You're awfully quiet, Barry._ "

Oliver scowls and ignores him.

" _All right, well, you two have fun. We'll be back in an hour. Just remember that if, and this is a big if, you're able to compromise the security system and escape, I can breach to your location in less than a second and subdue you. So don't have too much fun_."

Oliver growls thunderously. "I swear to God, Cisco, when I get out of here I am going to _break_ every bone in your—"

"All right, thanks, love you too, Cisco," Barry cuts in loudly. He Vulcan-salutes the camera for good measure. There's no response, and he slouches a little in defeat. "Say something controversial," he commands Oliver, looking at him seriously.

Oliver's anger visibly surges. "Why are we wasting our time with this?" he fumes.

"Just … humor me?" Barry says, keeping his own anger under lock-and-key.

Oliver looks at the ceiling, thinks for a long moment, and finally says loudly, " _Star Wars_ sucks."

There's silence.

"I LIKE JAR JAR BINKS."

Nothing. In his own outdoor-voice, Barry echoes, "Han shot second!"

Not even fuzz over the speaker.

Barry nods once. "Okay, we've got a little under an hour to figure out how to overpower them the second they open that door," he says, voice suddenly serious as he looks at Oliver. "You're the tactician. What's the best approach?"

Oliver blinks. "Were you … that was a show."

Barry rolls his eyes. "Survivalist's tactic?" he mimics. "Let your enemies think you're less keen on the situation than you actually are? I knew they were listening in. Hopefully they'll think we're gonna keep bickering for the next fifty minutes. That or sleeping."

"…I underestimated you, Barry."

"I wasn't actually kidding about the hypoxia, though," Barry says, earnest scientist once again. "That's a fact."

Oliver sighs. "I'll keep that in mind." Then, looking at the same place as the invisible camera, he adds softly, "Okay. We're boxed in, but there are still a few ways we can approach this."

Barry settles into a crouch, examining the floor near the cell. "Keep going. I'm listening."

Oliver does, and slowly, a plan unfolds.

* * *

7:07 PM.

" _You still hungry?_ "

Barry opens an eye and says sullenly, "You're late."

" _We brought you food._ "

Barry shrugs, sitting up and making a show of stretching his arms. Oliver is flat against the wall, leaning against it and glaring a hole through the door.

" _We're coming down. No funny business._ "

Barry rolls his eyes. "Pinky promise, Cisco."

An instant later, Cisco, Killer Frosts, and Alex Danvers are there, stepping through one of Cisco's breaches. "Okay, no funny business," Cisco repeats seriously. Alex has a gun leveled at their cell, and Barry knows instinctively that it doesn't shoot bullets. _Laser_. The one thing faster than a speedster at modest speeds – light itself. It packs a punch, too, and he suppresses a grimace at the thought of being hit without Speed to cushion the blow. _Ollie doesn't have Speed in here, either_.

It's not comforting.

Cisco punches in the combination while Oliver stays against the wall. Barry climbs to his feet slowly, unthreateningly. He asks conversationally, "Did you enjoy your meal?"

"We did, actually," Killer Frost says idly. "Now shut it."

Barry mimes zipping his lips shut.

The doors open smoothly. Barry's heart pounds. He doesn't take a step forward – too inviting, too _threatening_. "Don't move," Cisco warns unnecessarily. He holds the Big Belly Burger bag like it contains live snakes, arm's length, approaching slowly. Alex has her gaze locked on them. Killer Frost, Barry knows, can have them iced to the wall almost as quickly.

This has to happen very fast, and it has to work on the first try.

Fast movements work against Cisco, who puts himself at risk by not being aware. He extends the bag, ordering, "Take it, Queen."

Barry obligingly reaches forward, holding onto the bag firmly but making no move to bring it farther into the cell. "I'm honestly sorry about this," he says quietly, and then he throws a knee into Cisco's gut. Cisco doubles over with a sharp cry; Barry shoves him back before he can recover, and Oliver bursts into motion in the same swift instant.

Oliver Flashes out of the cell in the same instant, knocking Alex down. They crash to the floor in an uncoordinated heap, and Barry hears a loud _gong_ as Alex's head strikes a pipe before she goes limp. "You didn't _kill her,_ did you?" Barry hisses furiously, holding Cisco in a chokehold. Killer Frost's gaze flickers between them and Oliver, standing alone over Alex.

"I gave her a mild concussion," Oliver snaps back, apology in his tone.

Barry makes the mistake of leaving Cisco conscious as he growls, "Put it down, Caitlin. We don't want to hurt you."

Killer Frost laughs mirthlessly. "You really are as dumb as you look."

Barry opens his mouth to reply and lets out a strangled cry of shock and pain as Cisco's hand settles on his ribcage and _pulses_ , muffled cracks erupting from his chest. Strangling for breath, overcome with the unbearable, almost inhuman pain, he collapses.

"I'm sorry, too," Cisco replies, genuine apology in his eyes. Barry hunches inward, thrashing involuntarily, gargling over words. "Caitlin," he adds softly, looking at Killer Frost.

Oliver takes one step forward and it's over that quickly: Killer Frost nails him to the padded wall with ice, as effortlessly as a child discarding a toy. "What?" she asks Cisco impatiently, clearly ready to be done with the entire affair.

"Can you … I … I think I really hurt him."

"Yes, you did."

"Can you just … make sure I didn't – please."

"What, so he can pull the same trick?" Killer Frost shakes her head, glancing down at him indifferently. "He'll live. Just get him back in the cell and let's go. I'm more worried about Alex."

Groaning softly, too breathless to speak, Barry cries out when Cisco takes the back of his shirt and drags him carefully backward. His vision blacks out, returning only for a starburst of white light when Cisco releases him and he hits the floor. Then it's gone for good, and if there are further words exchanged, he doesn't hear them.

* * *

7:09 PM.

The ice still hasn't melted.

Not completely, at least, and Barry thinks dully, _I have to … I have to help. I have to help Oliver._

He tries to rise and makes it less than an inch off the ground before collapsing under a tidal wave of agony.

* * *

8:01 PM.

Barry first becomes aware of his own thin, tapered breathing.

Then he notices the soft surface under his head. That's wrong – the cells have steel floors, they're not meant to be living spaces but holding places for metas who the world didn't know what to do with – and yet it's undeniably true. There is something warm and soft under his head.

He blinks, vision blurred, entire ribcage aflame, and stares up at Oliver. "You're upside-down," he says, slurred. Looking down at his torso, deceptively unmarred above his shirt, he observes softly, "Ollie, my chest hurts."

He hears Oliver exhale a soft, aggrieved sound. "I forgot Cisco could Vibe."

"S'okay." Barry's fingers twitch towards Oliver but never quite make it beyond lifting off the floor for an instant. "I didn't warn you." He speaks slowly, deliberately, doing his best not to aggravate his chest. His burning, aching, fractured ribs. "S'okay, Ollie, 'm okay."

"I'm sorry," Oliver grinds out, like it's hard for him to say.

Barry closes his eyes, drawing in a shallow breath. Another shallow breath. He feels on the cusp of hyperventilation, but deeper breaths are impossible. The pain stops him every time. "I wish … I wish they'd believe us," he murmurs.

"They will. Eventually." Oliver says it with such conviction that Barry opens his eyes to look at him, doleful, hopeful. "They're your friends," Oliver finishes. "Of course they will."

Barry nods a little, aware that his head is resting on Oliver's leg and not caring – it is softer than the hard floor. He exhales and disappears, chasing unconsciousness as far down as it will go.

* * *

9:52 PM.

The surface underneath Barry shifts.

At first he thinks it's ridiculous, because pillows don't move, but then he hears a soft groan and feels the minute movements and opens his eyes. "Sorry," Oliver grunts, still gingerly moving his leg. Barry doesn't lift his head, just watching, trying to process. His head feels almost as heavy as his chest. "My leg fell asleep." Then his stomach growls loudly, and a tiny, airless laugh escapes Barry.

"Didn't you—" His voice is thin even to himself. There's no other noise to occlude it, though; Oliver hears it and shakes his head.

"No. I guess we lost our entitlement to that when we knocked out Ms. Danvers."

"How is she?"

"I don't know," Oliver admits. "I imagine we'd have a tribunal at our door if she wasn't still with us."

Barry shuts his eyes. "You mean Kara?"

"Hm?" Oliver's voice reflects genuine confusion.

"Kara," Barry repeats, trying – trying so hard to sit up, to stop leaning on Oliver and lean on the cold padding, even the steel floor instead. It doesn't work. All of his strength is gone. He sinks back down the fractional inch he gained. Oliver doesn't move. "She's – Alex's – sister."

A soft sound. "Oh." Then, musing: "That makes sense."

"They're – the Danvers were the ones who adopted Kara when her pod landed on Earth."

"Her pod … landed on Earth."

Amusement gives Barry strength. Looking up at Oliver, those gray-blue eyes lost and questioning, he finishes, "You really don't know the story?"

"Barry, I have … been very busy." Softening his tone, deliberately lowering the unintentional snark, he admits, "So, no, I don't know the story."

Barry gives it one last attempt to sit up properly, but he barely makes it an inch before sinking back down. Oliver sets a hand gently on his left shoulder, gives it the faintest squeeze, before releasing it. _It's okay_.

Barry inhales shallowly, exhales just as slow, and begins with deliberate care: "Kara and Kal – they're the last … last living members from a planet called Krypton."

* * *

10:41 PM.

"Barry?"

Dozing – surprisingly comforted by just Oliver's warmth and solidity underneath him – Barry echoes, "Ollie?"

"I hear someone."

Instinct tells Barry to try to get up, so he does, leveraging himself with agonizing slowness, inch-by-inch, to a seated position. Oliver keeps a bracing arm around his back. Even that hurts. "Ow," he groans, gingerly resting his own arm around his ribs. He peels the corner of his shirt up a little and sees black-and-blue skin from horizon to horizon. Sighing softly, he lets it go, knowing that his entire torso must be disfigured. _It'll heal_ , he thinks.

If he was still a speedster, it would already be healed.

He looks out the glass at the figure down the hall, blurry in his sleep-pained eyes. "Iris?" he slurs, surprised.

Without a word, she walks up to the keypad and types in the code. The door slides open. Barry expects Oliver to Flash out of sight, opens his mouth to warn him not to, but only a thin groan comes out as he tries to stand and meet her. Failing, he slouches against the arm holding him upright. "What're you—"

"I believe you," she says slowly, carefully, looking at the two of them. Standing mere feet away, she is an easy target without a gun. She doesn't look tense or prepared to fight, though.

She steps forward unhurriedly and crouches next to them. Oliver says softly, "Thank you."

Barry tries to echo the sentiment, but he shifts and the pain in his torso surges to the forefront. Biting his lip, he closes his eyes, waiting it out.

"How can I help?" Iris asks simply.

* * *

11:02 PM.

The apartment is cool and dark.

Barry doesn't open his eyes, just holds onto consciousness as Oliver sets his mangled body on the couch. Oliver speaks to Iris in a low voice for several moments, and then he disappears with a familiar _whoosh_.

Barry should feel vulnerable, painfully so with someone who thinks he is either a liar or out of his mind, but instead he feels nothing but grateful to be _home_.

Iris says, "Oli—Barry?"

He opens his eyes to slits, making a soft affirmative noise.

"I'm sorry."

It's a struggle, but Barry manages to push himself to a partially upright position. His hands are cold, and he's sure his face is ghost-white, but he doesn't pass out. Looking at her, he feels affection melting over him. "Iris …" Pausing, trying to catch the little breath he has, he finishes, "It's okay." Then, almost in a dream, he repeats: "I'm okay, Iris."

She strides across the room, a mixture of anguish and surprise in her eyes. "Bar…."

He yearns to sit up fully and embrace her. All he can do is repeat, "I'm okay."

With his broken body, nearly immobilized with agony, he can't do much to visibly affirm it. She steps closer, and he twitches his fingers towards her.

Intertwining them, she exhales, bringing them to her lips and pressing her mouth against them. "Please be okay," she whispers, kneeling next to him.

He tries to be. For her, he will always try.

* * *

12:59 AM.

Barry hears the Flash of movement before he sees its source, blinking deliriously around the – apartment, not cell. Nearby, Oliver stands in _Barry's_ suit. It looks ridiculous on him, and a soft sound of amusement tries to escape Barry, only to catch in his throat. He sighs instead, asking, "You have a good run?"

With a curt nod, Oliver produces a small pouch from a pocket hidden on the side of the suit. "Hit a couple trees on the way, but I found what I needed." In another blurred movement, he retires to his street clothes, exhaling audibly in satisfaction. Then he retrieves the pouch from the coffee table and saunters off into the kitchen.

"What's that?" Barry rasps.

"A cure-all."

Barry lets out a soft, barely-there laugh. "Where'd you get that?"

"Star City. I keep a supply on hand."

"Handy."

"I think so. Where'd Iris go?"

"She went to rally the rest of the gang and convince them we're not criminals trying to destroy their family."

Oliver huffs. "That's nice." Then, fishing around, he finds a plastic glass and fills it from the sink, pouring the contents of the pouch into it. It turns a rather appetizing color of forest green. Barry scrunches up his nose.

"Kale? That's your cure-all?"

"It's not—" Sighing, Oliver orders, "Just drink it."

"Will it kill me?"

"No."

"Are you lying?"

"Barry."

Barry takes the offered glass and holds it up to his lips. "If this is actually snake venom—"

Oliver scowls. Barry makes the mistake of taking a tentative sip, gags, and nearly spits it out on the floor. "What the _hell_ —?"

"You're lucky I have a stronger gag reflex than you," Oliver deadpans. "Now drink it."

"I hate you."

"That's nice."

With a groan, Barry brings the cup back to his mouth. "This is just snake venom, isn't it?" Pinching his nose, he forces it down in one prolonged gulp, face going white immediately after. "I'm gonna throw up," he groans, holding a hand to his mouth and letting Oliver take the empty glass from limp fingers.

"You better not. That's an extremely rare herb. As far as I know, it only grows on the island of Lian Yu."

Barry shudders, hunching forward. "This is a sick joke, Ollie," he grunts, so nauseous it momentarily overrides the pain, forcing him into a ball.

"Just breathe," Oliver advises. "It's not the nicest solution, but it gets the job done."

Breathing is becoming increasingly difficult, Barry notices. His chest is on _fire_. "What's the _least nice_ solution?" he asks acidly, jaw clenching so hard it cracks.

"Breathe," Oliver counsels.

Barry glares at him, closing his eyes tightly, fist pressed to his mouth.

"It'll pass," Oliver promises.

A ragged scream is building somewhere in Barry's chest. Fear alone of alerting the neighbors keeps it from becoming reality.

"I know it hurts. But it'll get better. Just breathe."

* * *

1:32 AM.

After an indefinite time, the roaring, shredding, reality-consuming pain subsides to mere agony.

Barry becomes aware of his surroundings once again, still hunched over, still shaking hard. Fire burns in his chest as he hauls in long, deep breaths, racehorse heavy.

The motion doesn't hurt the way he expects it to, and he presses a hand against his torso, assessing the damage, surprised at the softness, the _lack_ of intense pain. Oliver is seated next to him, he notices, a hand on his back, the sole point of _not-pain_ in his entire torso. Warmth radiates from Oliver's palm – supernaturally, speedster-enhanced warmth – and Barry relaxes into it.

"So." His voice croaks. "That's … a party trick."

"You okay?" Oliver asks, surprisingly earnest.

Barry's stomach twists with residual nausea, but when he straightens, the pain is _gone_.

"Yeah," he says, looking at Oliver warily. "What was that?"

"Like I said." Oliver shrugs carelessly. He leaves his hand where it is. "A cure-all. As far as I knew, it only worked on poisons."

Barry stares. "That might've been for nothing?"

Oliver looks back at him stoically.

Exhaling, Barry reaches up to run a hand down his face. He grimaces as the movement makes his ribs twinge. "Some cure-all."

"It's not perfect," Oliver admits, "but you were bleeding out internally."

Barry hums. "I guess I owe you a 'thank-you.'"

Oliver shakes his head. "You survived. That's all that matters to me."

Barry reaches back, taking Oliver's Speed-warm hand and bringing it around so he can hold it properly. He can feel the Speed that he knows better than his own name just out of reach. He closes his eyes, longing and hope burning inside him. _I'll come back to you_ , he tries to tell the Speed Force.

Oliver lets him hold on for a beat, and then he gently pulls away, sliding his arm around Barry's back and drawing him in for a one-armed hug. It's unexpected, but Barry leans into it readily, resting his cheek on Oliver's shoulder. It's the safest place in the world, amplified by the Speed coursing through Oliver's veins.

* * *

6:45 AM.

Cisco hugs him for forty-eight seconds.

Barry's acute sense of time clocks it, but he doesn't pull away, so indescribably grateful to have his family back in his life that he doesn't worry about the big picture, not for now, not for this moment.

Alex even says, "Welcome back, Allen." She's still got the gun at her side, but it's clearly not meant for him.

He grins. He tucks his arm around Iris and squeezes her gently – longing, intensely, for the bond that they had and not the strange glass he walks upon now – while his gaze slides to Oliver, standing in front of the console and looking at Barry expectantly.

 _It's your city_ , his expression prompts.

Nodding minutely, Barry begins, "We're gonna need reinforcements."

* * *

 _Aftermath._

It's approaching midnight, and Barry feels the fatigue, the satisfaction, the hunger for more lurking in Oliver's veins as Barry sits at the bar beside him.

"I admire how strong you are," Barry admits, swirling the beer around in its bottle before finishing it off.

Oliver huffs softly, lightly, and takes a sip from his own glass. He sets the bottle down and replies, "I could say the same about you."

Barry smiles a little to himself, more pleased than he would like to admit. "Yeah?"

"Don't make me say it again."

Barry laughs, bumping his shoulder against Oliver's. "You're a big softy, you know that?"

Oliver scowls and finishes off his bottle, smothering a response.

"I won't tell anybody," Barry assures, setting a hand on his forearm and squeezing it briefly, grateful to be on the other side of the lightning. Releasing him, Barry adds, "Besides, I know now that you are horrifyingly strong and could probably snap my neck like a twig."

Oliver gives him a pointed once-over and nods. "I wouldn't," he promises.

Barry smiles lazily. "That's comforting." And he means it.

If there is one thing in the world that's reassuring, it's knowing that he has someone like Oliver has his back.


End file.
